Keith Duggan/Athens Letter: This letter comes from the Galatacis Olympic Arena, a venue I can truly declare to hate with all my heart. It seems like a long time now - certainly years in terms of humiliation - since we set off for Galatacis, where the Olympic bat and ball specialists do their thing.
In theory, Galatacis is just a short air-conditioned spin away from the main Olympic stadium and, armed with a map and bus time- tables, it should not have been beyond my (admittedly sorry) navigational powers. But as the Greek running man Kenteris has spectacularly demonstrated, where Athens and travel plans are concerned, things fall apart.
Looking back now - with the bitter hindsight of a Vietnam veteran - my troubles began with Pete Sampras. Pete, or at least his long lost identical twin, is one of the many volunteers who stand in the broiling heat of Athens all day and answer, with unfailing courtesy, absurd questions.
Such as: "You couldn't tell us how to get to the oul ping-pong hall, pal?" Pete certainly could, directing me towards a platoon of coaches purring in a haze of petrol fumes and illustrating, with care, which one I should board. Eager not to miss the international battle of ping between the Koreans and Germany, we hurry off, having taken in the bones of his directions.
It comes down to a choice between a white bus and a red bus and we gamble on red and soon learn that has been the first mistake. We begin a loop of the Olympic stadium. Past the aquatic centre, where two armed soldiers sit smoking. They wave. The Irish Times, drawing on experiences of travelling to Clones for GAA games in the bad old days, nervously waves back.
On past the Athlete's Village, the sword fighting place, past the baseball stadium, the archery centre. No ping-pong though. Ten minutes later and the same vista again, the soldiers waving on automatic right now. I began to feel anxious and try to remember how Groundhog Day ended. Other - normal, bright people - are hopping on and off the bus, effortlessly locating their destinations. But the more loops I make, the more disorientated I become. The fourth time I pass the soldiers, they begin to high five each other and I realise the bastards are taking bets. There is nothing for it but to jump off at the beginning, where old Pete is still helping mankind. His perma-smile falters a little when he sees me but he is a pro and pretends not to remember me when I ask about the ping-pong all over again, as if it is a new day and I am a brand new member of the Olympic family.
Soon, I am on a different bus. Suspiciously alone. An ancient Greek bus-driving volunteer arrives, looks hard at me and then begins to drive. Soon Athens is but a distant memory and the Greek and myself are on a bone rattling tour of the old country, where goat herds wave, olive branches list in the breeze and maidens in togas play lutes by glimmering streams.
The Greek has no English, I no Greek. We are trapped on this pointless sightseeing tour by language. After an hour, we arrive at a lonely stadium where the Olympians do judo. Or to be more accurate, don't do judo.
After walking for a good half-hour, making polite conversation with the security people, I learn this is the day when judo experts rest. It is of course, completely obvious: the entire place is deserted. Except for me. Sadly, I troop off under the savage sun and present myself to the old Greek man. He looks at me, points to his watch and shrugs in regret. He smokes and stares through the windscreen, thinking things over. It occurs to me this is how the Greeks got so good at philosophy. About an hour later, he decides we should go. I land back at square one but this time Sampras, the phoney, avoids meeting my eye, coming to the not unreasonable assumption I am deranged.
Yet again, I seek directions to the table-tennis hall. It turns out I could have walked there. The thing is, I don't even like table tennis. When it was suggested the table-tennis people would appreciate a visit from The Irish Times, protests were vainly made. The mere thought of table tennis brought back memories of forlorn afternoons in the games room in the halls of the wretched Gaeltachts I went to in my youth. The table tennis table was the star attraction of such rooms. Few of the bats had handles and many were denuded of their rubber coating from summers of depressing Irish-language table tennis.
I kind of felt like I should have been good at the game but I was terrible, enduring these awful sets with some unhappy looking Gaeilgeoir from Carlow. The worst part was there was always a slick Dubliner called Al or Joe who looked like The Karate Kid's Ralph Macchio. He would observe our ineptitude in the art of ping-pong, where most of our time was spent retrieving the ball. Then, when there was enough people watching he would saunter up to take on the winner. He would destroy us - me - with a range of flashy serves and moves, winking at the cailíní as he went.
So suppressed anxieties and feelings of inadequacy came flooding back as I sought out the world's best experts in the games, Goddamn Olympic Ralph Macchios.
But at this stage, I was desperate to find Galaticas, just to prove to myself it existed. It does. It's about the size of Heathrow.
I was kind of crying and desperately hot and possibly babbling when I arrived at the entrance and security had grave reservations about letting me in. But I was not to be denied as I surged towards the main auditorium, where at last I would see the best in ping-pong this planet has to offer. I threw open the door in triumph and ahead lay row upon row of gleaming tables. But absent was the familiar pinging sound of that maddeningly light ball being sent back and forth across the deceptively high net.
There was nothing. There was no one. Except a group of volunteers, who smiled in brilliant synchronicity and demanded that they help me. I asked where the ping-pong went. They assured me the afternoon session had ended just minutes before.
I sank to my knees, broken now, understanding that in the laws and halls of table tennis, I am and always will be the ultimate loser.
